


Shedding My Skin Again

by blueskyscribe



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Beast Machines, Transformers: Beast Wars
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, a Big No to technorganic Cybertron, a fic I wrote in 2001, and was like "Oh I could post this on AO3", obscure toy based characters, the narrator is a lizard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: Iguanus didn't know what to expect when he returned to Cybertron, but it sure wasn't this technorganic . . . thing . . . that had happened to the whole planet.Then again, does it even count as 'returning to Cybertron' if he's stuck on Unicron's orbiting head?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! This is a fic I wrote in 2001. I had two motivations in writing: to create a fix-it fic for Beast Machines' "technorganic Cybertron", because boy did I hate THAT plot point, and to showcase some of my favorite toy-only characters from BW/BM. (Thus the narrator being BW Iguanus.)
> 
> At this point I've forgotten a lot of the plot I had planned out and I doubt I'll ever finish the fic. (But never say never, right? ;) ) I hope you enjoy this blast from the past anyway! I have about five chapters completed and I'll post one per week.

"Approaching . . . Cybertron." The ship's monotone was soft, if insistent. "Approaching . . . Cybertron. Shuttle will reach Cybertron in . . . twelve cycles. Please . . . acknowledge. Approaching . . ."

"Shut up." I squinted at the dull, distorted reflection provided by the shuttle wall. "Slag," I muttered, trying to pick away the shattered fragments of my left optic.

"Not . . . understood. Approaching . . . Cybertron—"

"I heard you the first time—HEY!" The craft pitched violently, slamming me against the wall, and the blurred feedback from my injured optic died completely. Damn it.

"Approaching . . . Cybertron. Please . . . acknowledge. Please . . . acknowledge. Please—"

"Acknowledged, acknowledged! Now shut up!" I staggered to my feet and slammed a fist into the base of the consul. Not just a wasted effort, but a stupid one. I winced as I flexed my hand; a few shards of metallic blue casing fell from my fingers, leaving the hydraulics unprotected. I glared at the nav computer. To the Pit with die-cast construction.

I didn't bother trying to pull up a visual of Cybertron. The dusty screen perched above the vast keyboard _did_ work—sometimes—if you hit it slaggin' hard—but its primitive graphics consisted of loosely joined white dots to represent planets, stars, and meteors alike.

Missiles were red, though. That much I'd learned.

"Approaching . . . Cybertron," the computer murmured (as if I could forget.) "Hailing on all . . . Autobot . . . frequencies . . ."

"Override," I told it. "Shut down all communications."

Autobot. Strange to hear that word . . . used. Really used, like it meant something. I'd known the shuttle was old when I found it, scuttling through a bay door built for something easily twice my size, but I hadn't realized it was _that_ old. Well, not until I spotted the Autobot symbols plastered all over the controls, anyway.

Reptrilion probably would've known what era the shuttle was from with one glance, maybe even been able to fix the damn thing so it could fly straight. Of course, he would've died before knowingly piloting an _Autobot_ craft.

Slag-spouting fool.

"Landing station Alpha-4 . . . not found. Landing station Beta-4 . . . not found. Landing station—"

Not found? They probably hadn't _existed_ since before the Great slagging War. Or maybe they were rusting under the spires of Iacon or Cybertropolis, buried by layer after layer of decaying cityscape. Forgotten relics of a dead era. A dead Cybertron.

There's nothing like space travel to turn you into an optimist.

"So find the nearest active landing port," I said. The computer hummed and whirred softly to itself. I grumbled under my breath; if the computer didn't acknowledge a command, it wouldn't obey it. Too bad I hadn't figured that out _before_ the hull was covered with laserburns. "Just find the nearest open area where you can land without killing anyone . . . including me," I said carefully.

The computer paused a beat before responding "Acknowledged."

I sat down again, trying to beat the jagged, twisted remains of my chest panel back over the semi-exposed circuits before giving up and hunching over the oversized comm link. They would hail me. They would _have_ to; Cybertron would never let anything this battered, this obsolete, land without questions. Maximal or Predacon? Would it even make a difference? I tried not to think too much about what I would say to them.

"Suitable destination . . . located. Landing procedure . . . beginning now."

I swore as the craft shuddered and rolled; from outside, faint but growing louder, metal screamed against metal. I leapt, transformed in mid-air, and dug my claws deep into the tarnished wall panels. Just in time. The ear-splitting screech intensified as the floor began to buckle. With a circuit-jarring wrench, the shuttle plowed into something big—I could tell because the nose of the ship crumpled inward, fragging the viewscreen—turned two somersaults, and slid to a stop.

"Computer," I said, still clinging to the wall, "what in the Pit just happened?"

"Landing procedure . . . complete. You may now . . . disembark."

Slowly I unclenched my claws, scattering silvery fragments of paneling across the floor. Actually across the ceiling, because the shuttle had landed upside down. "Great. Just slaggin' great. I'm glad you specialize in such subtle landings. We can't have destroyed more than _half_ of Iacon, right?"

"Sensors indicate . . . no Cybertronian casualties. Sensors indicate . . . shuttle occupant is functional. Landing procedure . . . complete." The computer almost sounded offended.

 _"My_ sensors indicate that the shuttle has been reduced to a pile of slag," I muttered as I transformed.

"Shuttle occupant did not indicate . . . preferred status of shuttle. Landing procedure . . . complete."

I ignored the computer, pulled out my guns, and leaned against the wall. I'd been hoping for—counting on—a chance to sneak into the backalleys of Cybertron, to lie low in the abandoned warehouses and energy refineries of the seedy region known as "the Dead End".

Don't count your circuits before they're online, they say. I hate it when they're right.

"Time to face the music," I growled. Predacon or Maximal, whatever was waiting for me was going to be sorry. With a gun in each hand, I stalked over to the dented shuttle door, kicked it open, and faced . . .

Nothing.

Nothing but a landscape of tarnished paneling overshadowed by dim skeletons of crumbling framework. No 'bots. No sign of life at all, in fact. From my left came the creak of metal and I swiveled to face it, guns ready, but it was only a weathered scrap of metal swinging from a broken beam, outlined against the sky.

I crouched for a cycle or two before slowly sliding the weapons into their grooves on both sides of my waist and transforming back to beast mode. The slightly smaller lizard form would be better for creeping through the shadows. Besides, in beast mode I had _two_ functioning optics. Not that there was much to see. Sharply angled rises laced with rusting circuitry. The remains of massive hydraulic beams stabbing at the stars. By the Pit, where was I? Even the Dead End had _some_ signs of life . . .

As I half-scuttled, half-slid down a steep slope, a semi-symmetrical, smooth-walled pit caught my optics, yawning in front of me. Shards of translucent green hyperplastic lined the edges, maybe the remains of something that had once covered the gaping hole. I cautiously peered into the huge chasm, but I couldn't see the bottom, even after activating the long-range sensors in my specialized beast eye. No lifeforms. No movement. Empty. Dead.

I transformed to robot mode and pulled out a gun anyway as I began stalking around the hole. I'd been gone a long time; maybe someone had built it since then. Or maybe it was something older than Maximals and Predacons, hidden away and forgotten outside the city-states of Cybertron.

Reptrilion would know, but of course he wasn't here. Of course.

 _"Fool."_ I violently kicked a stray pipe into the pit and paused to watch the darkness consume it.

That pit. It nagged at my memory core, reminded me of something. But what? I stared into its broken depths, absently rubbing a finger over my shattered optic . . .

Optic.

Shattered.

Oh _slag._


	2. Chapter 2

I kicked the shuttle door out of my way. "Computer, what the in the Pit are we doing on Unicron's slagging _head?"_

"Designation 'Unicron' . . . not recognized."

"I'll give you a hint: it's a slaggin' huge HEAD and we're on it."

The computer whirred briefly. "Shuttle occupant requested open area with . . . minimum risk of casualties for . . . landing procedure. Current location is . . ."

"Forget it, you worthless scrapheap. The shuttle—what condition is it in?"

"Extensive repairs necessary for . . . flight capabilities. Beginning diagnostic sequence. Thruster A1 . . . offline. Thruster B1 . . . offline. Thruster C1 . . . offl—"

"Are _any_ of your thrusters online?"

The computer paused. "Negative."

I sat down and began working on my damaged optic. "Then skip 'em. What else?"

"Forward particle generators . . . offline. Aft particle generators . . . offline. Emergency power generator . . . offline. Environmental controls . . . offline. Graphical interface . . . offline. Landing lights . . . off—"

"Stop." I tilted my head as I fingered the delicate retinal circuitry. "I don't need to hear this. Just tell me what's still operational on this flying pile of scrap."

The computer remained silent for several cycles before responding. "Navigational computer . . . online."

"And?" As I maneuvered two strands of wire together, my left optic flickered to life.

"Listing . . . complete."

My hand jerked involuntarily and the optic died again. _"You_ are the only operational piece of equipment on the whole slagging shuttle?"

"Analysis . . . correct."

"As the Maximals say . . . that's just _prime,"_ I said sourly, tossing a frayed piece of wire to the ground.

"Designation 'Maximals' . . . not recog—"

"If you don't shut up the shuttle isn't going to have _any_ functional components," I growled, hefting a gun. "I'll see what I can salvage."

Not much could be saved . . . just a lot of useless hardware, mostly crushed paneling, cables, and wires. I didn't think they'd help much since the shuttle was still missing a few essentials—large portions of the _walls_ and _floor,_ for example.

I considered my options. Self-propelled flight? I wasn't equipped with thrusters or jumpjets so even if I could somehow break the gravitational pull, I wouldn't be able to steer towards Cybertron.

But . . . the _D ecepticons_ had been able to fly.

I grabbed the emergency power cells I'd brought on board, stored them in my chest compartment, and coiled a thick fistful of cables before I began trudging across the vast emptiness of Unicron's helmet. How many millions of years had passed since the war against the giant? How long could that famous die-cast construction last?

"Time to find out," I muttered.

I headed for his eyes. Anything on the surface would've decayed long ago, if it wasn't stolen by opportunists . . . like me. But if something had ended up _inside_ the head . . .

I paused in front of the gaping eyehole. Inside, darkness . . . and a way to escape, if I was lucky.

If.

I knotted the cables around some ancient hydraulics and began my descent. It wasn't as bad as I'd thought . . . when I was about fifty feet down I found a platform to the side of the pit. Swinging onto it, I transformed to beast mode and adjusted my optics to the dimness. Now I saw openings off to the side . . . some shuttling massive cables out of sight and some which had been roughly blasted through the thick metal walls. I chose a jagged puncture surrounded by char marks. _Someone_ had gone this way before me. Maybe they had left something behind. Like some jump jets. Or an operational shuttle.

Hey, a bot can wish.

I crawled through the veins of the dead monster. And crawled. And crawled. And crawled some more. I lost track of time and distance, but twice I had to stop to re-energize. Two power cells left. I tried not to think of what would happen if I ran out of energy down there. I kept moving, kept searching . . .

I felt a little desperate by the time I had to use the third power cell. Shutting down all my external sensors until I had only basic awareness of feeling and light, I blindly pushed through the darkness and hoped I wouldn't unknowingly crawl right by something useful.

My power reserves low and dropping steadily when I sensed the light. I transformed, staggering a little as my systems came online. Above me, a pale shaft of red light stabbed through a grid of grillwork. The floor was uneven, with ancient metallic forms rising from the shadows. I scaled one to get a better look around, disturbing layer upon layer of grease and rust.

It wasn't until I turned around that I noticed a familiar red symbol half uncovered by my tracks.

Kneeling, I scraped away the grime until the battered insignia was fully visible, with its angled rectangles forming a face. In a weird way, it reminded me of the Maximal symbol . . . or vice versa. I took a few steps back, adjusting my optics again. A robot. A huge yellow robot, beyond huge, crumpled on the ground with my footprints filing up his arm. Judging from the huge tire rims on its shoulders, it must have turned into some kind of transport vehicle.

From my perch on the Autobot's shoulder, I could see more—a battered chassis on one side and a whole pile of bodies on the other. Maybe some jets? I jumped down, pulled a laser scalpel from my chest compartment, and headed for the tangle of deactivated robots to find out.

Several mega-cycles later, I aimed a kick at the last of the behemoths. "Slag!" Eroding wires lay tangled around me, trailing out of the legs and feet of the dead robots, draped over the not-quite-rectangular panels of metal I had torn from the carcasses. All for nothing. The chassis had survived pretty well considering their age, but their circuitry and internal hardware was shot to slag, useless after millions of years of neglect. Empty shells. No escape that way.

I twirled one of my guns, considering. I had hacked through the cast-iron hide of every 'bot I could find, but maybe there were more nearby. Outside, maybe. More bodies to pick over.

I never liked scavengers, but what can you do?

Returning to the Autobot I had first scaled, I crept onto his shoulder joint again, glancing at the blazing red sun through the hole above me. It's pretty common for Cybertron to get pulled into the orbit of a nearby star, but sooner or later the gravity of Unicron's head pulls us away by acting as a counterweight or . . . something. I never paid much attention to the mechanics of it.

The red light from this particular star glared off the torso of the 'bot, highlighting a hole in his chest where a windshield had once been. As I cast around for the easiest path up to the surface, I happened to glance at the chest wound . . . and then paused to look again. Something was down there, something shiny and . . . blue? What in the Pit?

I jumped down to take a closer look, landing on a layer of thin, fragged metal. I drew in a hissed intake of air as my optic confirmed it; gleaming blue and silver, a robot hung tangled and suspended in the frayed circuits.

A robot with wings sweeping back from his arms and a cockpit below his torso.

A jet.


	3. Chapter 3

I pulled out the energy scalpel again and began hacking at the cables that held him. Maneuvering the small energy blade and cutting through the thick tangle took time, but at last the bot clanged to the floor, falling faceplatefirst. I dragged him into the fading patch of sunlight to get a better look at his injuries--by the Pit, he was heavy!--and his design.   
He might have been a head taller than I was (not including the silly looking "ears" sweeping up from his head), but he was still tiny compared to the deactivated Autobots and Decepticons, and his fresh paint job suggested he was a new or newly reconstructed bot. Minimal battle damage scarred his torso . . . odd since there hadn't been a civil war in centuries. Maybe he was a soldier or a mercenary.

I thought of my own splintered chest panel. 

Well, maybe not. 

At any rate, his injuries looked non-terminal. It looked like he had gone offline due to a simple . . . lack of energy? 

"I'm going to make sure the same thing doesn't happen to me," I growled, spotting the thrusters partially encased in the front part of the bot's legs. The silver casing hinged at his knees; it wasn't easy wrenching them open, but finally I had enough room to get a clear view of them. I tossed the laser scalpel aside with a snort. His jumpjets weren't just attached _to_ his legs . . . They were _embedded_ in his legs. Maybe if I were a doctor or a mechanic (and there's not much difference between the two in our race) I could have detached them safely, but as it was . . . 

"Well, I'll take the whole leg, then," I muttered. I raised the atom-thin blade of the energy scalpel . . . 

. . . which flickered and died.

I suppose I should have been surprised.

I snorted in disgust and tossed the laser scalpel to one side. "Looks like it's time to gamble." 

Just under his neck nestled a silver compartment marked with a strange insignia, a circle split down the middle with three wedges cut from it. I pried open the compartment, examining the complex pattern of circuitry within. Yep, he was from my era; in the dead center was a curved indentation, the standard design. It wouldn't be difficult to pop the emergency power cell in there.

My last power cell. 

That would teach me to travel light. 

I snapped the cylindrical power cell into place, rolled back, and pulled out my guns. The change was immediate. The bot twitched spasmodically as its red optics flickered to life. My grip on my guns tightened as he pushed himself up with him arms and slowly rose to his feet, but the bot didn't seem to notice me. His optics swept the room, searching for something. 

"Maximal or Predacon?" I demanded. He looked toward me when I spoke, raised his arms--should've disabled those lasers before reactivating him--then paused as if unsure of his target. It was hard to read his exact emotions with that silver mask covering most of his face, but when his optics began searching the room again, I was one hundred percent sure he was ignoring me. I scowled. 

"Are you Maximal or Predacon?" I repeated, wondering if it would even matter. His head jerked up at the word "Maximal" and he stared at me blankly. Strange . . . I would've pegged him for a Pred for sure. Then again, I didn't see a symbol for either faction on him. One more try. "Who do you work for? Who are you?" 

His stare grew in intensity and I stared right back. Finally he gestured towards the wing angling up from his right arm. I edged closer. There was that strange circular symbol again . . . and something else. Writing. 

"Aero . . . Areodro . . ." Laser burns obscured the letters. I squinted. "Areodrome?" It was followed by a long sequence of numbers. Maybe he was from the army after all. 

"Areodrome. Okay." I shrugged. "What faction are you?" 

No response. 

"Answer me, slag it! Are you a Maximal?" 

His head jerked again, this time from side to side, as he raised his weapons--not at me, but at the shadowed recesses of the room. An automatic reaction, it looked like. Interesting. 

"Well, Areodrome," I said, carefully holstering my guns--reluctantly--"If you're not a Maxi, you've gotta be a Pred. That's lucky for both of us, 'cause I'm a Pred too." I gestured towards the insect-head insignia on my left shoulder, though it had almost been scratched and battered beyond recognition. The flyer looked at it with interest and something that resembled confusion. 

"So since we're on the same side . . . turn on your thrusters or jets or whatever those things are and let's get to the surface of this scrapheap," I said. He just stared at me blankly. That was getting old real fast. "By the fires of the Inferno, what are you waiting for? Get us topside, slag it!" I snarled. 

Instant response. His legs swivelled inward and locked together while the thrusters pulled from their casings and fired up. 

I caught his leg as he sped towards the hole in the ceiling. We burst through the ragged gap; the stars wheeled above us, and below . . . 

"Great Primus." 

We were on the back of Unicron's helmet . . . and as far as I could see, the ground was strewn solid with corpses. Mostly blue corpses. Jets. I cast a glance upward, but Areodrome hadn't reacted at all, as far as I could tell. 

"You are one cold 'bot," I said as the flier slowed down for a landing. I began kicking through the remains. "What happened? Cybertron was at peace when I left . . ." 

But that was a long time ago. And even in "peace", the Maximals and Predacons were always at each others throats. Oh, they didn't toss around nuclear weapons or sent out assault forces any more . . . but there were alleys where Maximals didn't walk at night, streets that Predacons left alone if they knew what was good for them . . . 

I was glad to leave it behind me. I didn't give a damn about Maximals as long as they left me alone and kept out of my way. 

Reptrilion, though . . . he _believed._ Take the Great War. My take on it would be that our ancestors, the Decepticons, lost it because they were a bunch of bungling morons. (You should read the datatracks about the time they tried to take over this human city . . . pathetic. Just sad.) But Reptrilion, he didn't see it that way. He saw our "glorious predecessors" fighting nobly against all odds to beat Unicron, only to have the Autobots steal Cybertron away from them afterwards while the 'Cons were recovering. Rep would use words like "usurped" and "ignoble" and slag like that. 

He'd hated Maximals. 

He'd hated them a little too much, in fact. 

Smelting idiot. 

I scowled as I realized I'd been staring at the same pile of blue and silver carcasses for several cycles. 

"We're wasting valuable energy gaping at this scrap," I snapped. "Transform to your jet mode--you _are_ a jet, right?--and let's get out of here." 

He stood there--hovered there--and looked at me. 

Yeah, I saw it coming too. 

"By the _Pit!_ When I tell you to do something, you _do it!_ Now transform before I blow your slagging head off!" 

He obediently transformed into a sleek blue jet. Apparently it didn't occur to him that if I actually shot him, I'd be back where I began--stuck on Unicron's head. Or maybe he just didn't react at all unless someone was barking orders. He _was_ some kind of military bot, after all. 

Even though he had enlarged several times as he transformed into vehicle mode, he was still pretty small, definitely a one bot jet in terms of passenger space. Not that I was going to wait for something better to come along. I popped open the cockpit and climbed in. "Kind of a tight fit, but okay." I twirled a gun. "Cybertron, here I come." 


End file.
